


All Hail the Queen

by auri_mynonys



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Reality, Alternate Universe, Chair Sex, F/M, Possessive Behavior, Power Dynamics, Public Sex, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-28
Updated: 2013-03-28
Packaged: 2017-12-06 18:24:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/738733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/auri_mynonys/pseuds/auri_mynonys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eowyn’s relations are all dead, and Eowyn is made queen at a young age. Many disapprove of her choice of counsellor - the half-blooded bastard Grima son of Galmod - but given that he is not only her counsellor but also her consort, there is little they can say against him that will sway the queen herself…</p>
            </blockquote>





	All Hail the Queen

**Author's Note:**

> The opening, in italics, was written by TheStraggleTag as a prompt for me; the rest of the fic is mine in response.

_Grima knelt before her, a willing supplicant worshipping at the altar of his deity._

_“I have urgent news for your ears, my Queen,” he murmured, his ice-blue eyes seeming to notice only her in the crowded throne room. A forceful cough from a nosy courtier had him sweeping his gaze around the room. “But, I’m afraid such… sensible information must be relied to you and you alone, mistress.”_

_He stared down everyone in the room, daring anyone to contradict him._

_“If such is the case, Councillor  I will hear you alone,” she motioned for everyone to retreat, her face and posture betraying none of her eagerness. Her faithful servant’s eyes promised dark, wicked things and she could already imagine his tongue on her skin, tracing dark and forbidden paths that she’d mimic on his own flesh with her nails. Her Councillor bore such red marks with utter pride, rejoicing on the pain that came with them like it was a token of her benediction._

 

The court left slowly, and with incredible reluctance. Éowyn wondered sourly if they all knew and meant to torment her the more. Gríma’s expression certainly could have given them away, his eyes focused unblinking on hers, his lips curled into a hungry, predatory smile. He had not risen from his knees, but she could see the tenseness of every muscle in his body, waiting eagerly for the perfect moment to pounce.

Éowyn kept her eyes focused away from Gríma, on the parting courtiers as they left. She stared them down until their disapproving glances became no more than sullen stares directed at the floor; and finally, they all scurried out at last, rushing away on hurried feet.

The throne room emptied, Éowyn relaxed a little, settling back in her throne and turning to her counsellor with a regal smile. “Well?” she said, arching a brow. “What is it you would tell your queen?”

She laid a special emphasis over the words  _your queen_ , a slight inflection that set his tongue in a quick, ravenous flicker across his lips.

Still he kept his distance, continuing to kneel before her. “Have I your permission to rise, my queen?”

“No.” Éowyn smirked at the small flicker of frustration that danced across his face before it faded again into subservience. “You will stay on your knees until I command you otherwise.”

He bit at his lip, swallowing his growl – to make a sound would earn his dismissal from the throne room, and that she knew he did not want, would do anything to avoid. “As you say, Your Highness,” he agreed, with a small dip of his head. When he looked up again, his eyes were intent upon hers, bright and layered with meaning. “I am ever your servant in all things.”

The intensity of his stare, and the way in which he’d tasted each word as he’d spoken it, sent heat flooding through Éowyn’s veins. She squirmed a little in her throne, and wondered how long she would be able to make herself wait for him before she gave him his reward. “What is it you wished to tell me?” she asked, keeping her voice imperious.

Gríma licked his lips once more, eyes tracing a path from her face to her throat. “I have had word from my contacts in the Westfold,” he said. “It is not pleasant news, I fear. You may perhaps wish for something more…  _pleasurable…_ before I tell you.”

Éowyn frowned. Was Gríma playing a game with her, or was his news truly so terrible? She was deeply fond of her counsellor, but he sometimes put his desires and wishes before the needs of others, to their detriment. “How dire is this news?” she asked, all playfulness gone from her tone.

A look of irritation, more prolonged this time, flashed across his countenance. “Not so dire that the whole of the Riddermark will fall if I take my time about telling you,” he said, inching closer to her and laying one pale, long-fingered hand on the arm of the throne.

Éowyn stared him down. “Yet dire enough to send away the whole of the court.”

Gríma raised his eyes to the rafters and sighed, as if begging the Valar for patience. The game interrupted, he pushed himself to his feet and moved to his chair at her side, pulling it close to the throne – close enough for him to settle both elbows on its arm, fold his fingers, and set his chin on them, looking up at her with a gaze far from innocent. “Very well,” he said. “If my queen insists on having it from me now…”

He paused, waiting for her to command his silence, to push him back on his knees and make him beg for her, a punishment for his impudence. She would have liked to punish him, too, but denying him was punishment enough for now. She stayed silent, forcing herself to stare unblinking back into his icy gaze. “Go on,” she said.

Gríma sighed again and pulled away, settling into his small chair. “It would appear that there is a traitor in our midst,” he said at last, folding his hands across his stomach. “A captain, perhaps. Someone with knowledge of our patrols’ movements.”

Panic flooded Éowyn’s veins. “Has there been an attack?” she said, leaning towards him. “How many men dead?”

“Fortunately, none,” Gríma said, raising a hand to silence her. He laid the same hand over hers, gently rubbing circles over her knuckles with his thumb. “There have been no battles, and no attacks. But they have been taking horses from the herders there. Not as many as they could have taken, but enough.”

This was almost as grievous a blow as a battle might have been. “How many?” Éowyn asked, stricken.

“Perhaps fifteen when the letter was sent, my queen,” Gríma said, still stroking the back of her hand. “Dunlendings, they think. The raids are disorganized, but always timed when a patrol cannot reach them. They know our movements, even if they are inelegant in their attacks.”

Éowyn shook off his hand and rose, pressing a hand to her mouth. “This is ill news indeed,” she said. “More ill than you gave me reason to believe.”

“It is fifteen horses, my queen,” Gríma replied, also rising and hurrying after her. “Not all the stables of the Eorlingas. Measures are being taken – ”

Éowyn whirled to face him, clenching her fists. “Measures were being taken before these attacks began,” she said, her voice rising with her anger. “And see how much good they have done.  _Only_ fifteen horses, you say? Perhaps you are right – for now. But they are fifteen of the best horses in the whole of this land, and now they have fallen into the hands of the enemy. Fifteen horses can breed, and become far more than fifteen. Give the enemy those fifteen horses and soon it  _will_  be all the stables of the Riddermark.”

Gríma flinched and held up his hands in surrender, bowing to her. “A thousand pardons, my queen,” he said. “I did not mean to imply – ”

“Well, you did,” Éowyn snapped, turning away from him and glaring at the woodwork on the door. “If you take fifteen horses as a game, my lord, perhaps you are not fit to sit in that chair you so happily occupy now.”

He gasped, and Éowyn winced. She should not threaten him so freely, she knew; he had had to scrape and claw and fight his way into power, and Éowyn knew very well she was his only supporter. Take that away, and Gríma son of Gálmód would have nothing left – no wealth, no power, and perhaps worst of all, no lover.

She pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes and turned back to him, unable to look into his face. “What are these measures you spoke of?” she said, by way of apology.

If he recognized it as an apology, he did not seem to accept it. His voice was brittle and cold when he spoke. “The soldiers are splitting into smaller groups and guiding the herdsmen and their families inland, away from the raiders,” he said. “I thought it would be best if they and their horses were removed from danger at once. Moreover, the captains responsible for executing the plans have been split and now reign individually over their own patrol; if something goes amiss with one specific captain, we may guess that he is the traitor, and thus root him out.”

Éowyn nodded slowly. “It is a good plan,” she said. “See to it that those horses are protected at all costs. They are our greatest resource in these dark times.”

Gríma bowed to her, more deeply than usual. “I shall see it done,” he said. He rose, keeping his eyes downcast, and started for the corridor behind the throne that led to his chambers. “I will take my leave of you then, my lady, if that is all you would have of me.”

“No!” The cry was practically ripped from her mouth before she could stop it. He looked up, startled, and eyed her warily. She drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly, listening to it shake. “Stay,” she said, finally meeting his eyes. “You did well to bring this news to me. You deserve some small recompense for this service.”

His eyes narrowed. “I do not do it for small recompense, my lady,” he said. “I do it for  _you_.”

He started for the corridor, despite her command, despite the want that had danced in his eyes and whispered promises to her before he’d told her of the horses. Éowyn stood perfectly still for a moment, then burst out, “Have me, then.”

He stopped on the stairs that led to her throne, turning slowly back to her. He still did not look entirely like he trusted her, but the wanting was back in his eyes again, fierce and sharp and bright as a hungry flame. “Shall I take that as an offer to be accepted or refused?” he said. “Or shall I take it as a command from my queen?”

She took a step towards him, a small, nonthreatening step, as if she were taming a skittish horse. “Which would please you better?” she asked.

The wariness was leaving him, moment by moment. The stiff set of his shoulders began to relax, and his jaw, tightly clenched a moment before, released. He let out a long, slow breath, closing his eyes; and when he opened them again, he smiled, the kind of smile that made her heart pound to a screeching halt and sent a spike of heat and wanting between her thighs. “I am yours to command, my lady,” he said, his voice a low purr; “whenever and however you wish it.”

One deep, shaken breath later, and she was across the throne room to him, dragging his face down to hers. He took her mouth with a small snarl, catching her in his arms and lifting her off the ground, holding her aloft for just a few moments before letting her slide back down to the floor, still clinging to him. Her skirts caught and bunched at her thighs, and Gríma grabbed at them at once, tugging and lifting until his fingers could stroke bare skin. Éowyn growled fiercely at the touch of his hand, grabbing his wrist and pulling his hand higher. His nails scraped her skin as she tugged, leaving red lines in their wake and making her hiss into his mouth.

He shook her hand off of his and scooped her up again, half-carrying, half-dragging her to the throne. He let her drop into the throne a little more roughly than Éowyn had expected – a small punishment, perhaps, for the remark she’d made earlier – and then, panting for breath, he bowed to her. “Command me then, mistress,” he said, while she desperately tried to catch her breath and regain some semblance of dignity. “What would you have of me?”

She smirked, staring up at him from the center of the throne. “Shouldn’t a servant always kneel before his queen?” she said, arching a brow.

He grinned, thin-lipped and mischievous, and dropped slowly to his knees before her, laying his hands on her thighs. “Forgive me, my queen,” he said, “For my insolence. I pray you will not punish your most loyal counsellor for so small an error?”

Éowyn considered, for a moment, dragging out his torment, but guilt still gnawed at her for the things she’d said. She let the moment go. “Just this once,” she said, and parted her legs beneath her skirts.

The grin grew. She caught a flash of teeth and tongue before he lowered his gaze and pressed her skirts back, tugging at them until they were a tangled mess around her hips. He tugged her forward none too gently, dragging her to the edge of the throne and pressing a kiss between her legs.

Then his tongue flicked against her skin, and Éowyn bit down hard on a cry, her fingers curling tightly around the arms of the throne.

Another swirl of his tongue and Éowyn was biting her lip, knuckles going white as her grip tightened on the throne. Oh, he was dangerous, this man; dangerous and wonderful, for he could make her forget everything with the smallest touch of his fingers, the slightest flicker of his tongue. Even here, even now, she could forget for a moment the danger of her position – the danger of having him.

Briefly it occurred to her that anyone might find them at any moment, should a courtier or servant come to check on the progress of their discussion; but she couldn’t bring herself to care, couldn’t bring herself to stop him. She bit down on another moan as his tongue slipped inside her, delving deeper. She threw her head back and rocked her hips towards him, whimpering as his tongue danced against her tender flesh, merciless and relentless. His fingers curled and tightened around her thighs.  _I will tear a cry from you,_ he seemed to say, as she swallowed a small scream;  _I will have you squirming and screaming in the end, if you will let me._

Éowyn gritted her teeth and let go of one arm of the throne, catching Gríma’s hair and tugging his head back. He looked up into her eyes and ran his tongue over his lips, as if he could not bear to stop tasting her. “Have I displeased you, my queen?” he said, when she did not say anything.

When she felt she could trust her voice and legs again, she released him and pushed herself to her feet, letting her skirts fall back around her ankles. “Sit,” she said, standing aside and motioning to the throne.

He looked surprised, glancing warily between her and the throne. “My lady?”

“Would you disobey your queen?” she asked.

“No!” He rose at once, but still seemed suspicious of her motives. “If you wish it…”  
  
He sat, keeping his eyes on her. The throne lent a certain regal look to his features, the intricate circle that arched at the top of the throne making a halo that framed his dark hair. Éowyn wondered if she looked anywhere as noble when she sat there. She stood for a few moments longer, admiring him, and then stepped forward, nudging first his left leg aside to make room for hers, and then his right, so that she was straddling him.

“There,” she murmured, lips hanging perhaps a centimeter from his. “That’s better, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Gríma rasped, his voice hoarse with longing. His eyes danced over her face, focusing on her mouth; he bit down on his bottom lip, hard, and clenched his fingers around the throne’s arms, as Éowyn had been doing only moments before.

Éowyn smirked and settled into his lap, grinding slowly against him before stilling. He was hard and ready for her almost at once, mouth falling open in a small gasp. “Ooh,” Éowyn said, arching a brow at the feeling. She ground her hips against him once more, watching him squirm desperately beneath her. “You were wanting for this.”

“I am always wanting for you, mistress,” he said, his voice trembling. He hissed, closing his eyes, and gasped, “Would you torment your poor servant this way, after all he has done so faithfully for you?”

Éowyn smiled, leaning close to his ear to whisper, “What delight is there in the reward, without the anticipation of receiving it?” She bit playfully at his earlobe, grinning when the nip elicited a sharp moan.

He was good for a few moments more, whimpering as she nipped and sucked her way down his throat, shivering when she would pause to rub against him; but soon it was too much for him. He could be patient when it was important, but not when it came to her. “Please, my lady –  _please_  – ”

She laughed brightly. “Please, what, counsellor?” she said. “Would you beg a boon of me?”  
  
He was practically shaking beneath her hands, bucking his hips when she ground against him as if to thrust inside her. “I will beg and cry and scream if it will end my torment,” he said, darting forward to kiss her throat. “Let me inside you or I shall die here on this throne – ” The plea ended in a small cry and another desperate thrust forward, his knuckles white against the wood of the throne.  
  
Éowyn sat back, doing her best to look regal even in her disheveled state. “Valar forbid I live to see the day I lose you to Death’s hand,” she said. “If the waiting will slay you, counsellor, then I grant you your wish.”

He grinned fiercely, teeth bared, like a dragon who had found a mountainous hoard of treasure about to be claimed for his very own. He nearly pushed her off the throne in his hurry to rise and take her; but she pushed him back down again, rising herself and pushing aside his tunic. “Ah, ah,” she chided, tugging at the laces of his breeches, but keeping her eyes on him. “Did I tell you you could rise?”

“Forgive me,” he said, gaze locked on her fingers. He swallowed heavily as the last laces were undone, squirming to get the confining garment out of the way. “But – ”

Éowyn caught his wrists and lifted his hands free of the throne’s arms, pulling him forward a few inches. She laid his hands on her thighs, letting him pull her skirts up around her hips once more; then she knelt over him again, straddling him. “You asked for a reward, counsellor,” she said, breathlessly. “And I will give it to you. All you need do is sit.”  
  
His eyes glittered eagerly, fingers tightening around her thighs and tugging her down onto the very tip of his cock. “As you wish it, mistress,” he said, his voice low with wanting. “Take me however it pleases you.”

“I intend to,” Éowyn said, and slid the rest of his cock inside her with one long, slow movement.

Gríma gasped, eyes fluttering closed and fingers squeezing her hips. Éowyn finally gave a tiny cry, moaning as he entered her almost fully. She paused for a moment to move from her knees, wrapping her legs tightly around Gríma’s body as though to sit cross-legged. She cried out again, louder this time, as his cock slipped all the way inside her, to the very depths of her core. He hissed and clawed at her back, tugging her closer and kissing desperately at her throat to silence his own moans. “Éowyn,” he nearly sobbed; “Éowyn, my queen, my love…”

She rocked her hips in one fluid motion, and his endearments broke off into a gasp. He bucked forward again, and Éowyn nearly screamed at the sensation, shoving her fist into her mouth to silence herself. In her eagerness to tease Gríma she had barely noticed her own wanting; but it had been there all along, rising with every passing second. Moaning, she moved again, faster this time, a continuous rocking of her hips that had Gríma cursing one moment and begging the next. He tangled his pale fingers in her hair and pulled her face down to his, drowning her cries in his mouth. His other arm he kept around her waist, steadying her as she rode him harder and harder.

She had never had him like this before, and she wished more than anything she’d thought of it sooner. His cock was stroking a place inside her that made her legs tremble wildly and her whole body shudder; and when he slipped his hand between their frantic bodies and began to stroke her mound, she thought she might melt, or burst into flames. She rode him until her hips would not stop moving even if she’d tried to still them; took him harder and faster until she was screaming, coiled and clenched so tightly around him that she could feel every shudder and twitch of his cock. The sensation, coupled with the stroking of his hand, was going to send her over the edge at any second. She clung to him desperately, gasping his name against his neck; his fingers circled faster and harder at the sound, and he pressed his lips to her ear and hissed, “Come for me, Éowyn, scream for me, scream my name, yes,  _yes…_ ” And she did scream, one piercing, keening cry that hit the rafters of the throne room as she rode him to her bliss.

She sagged, still clinging to him, as she came back down, chest heaving as she gasped for breath. He clung to her just as tightly, still kissing lightly the skin beneath her ear, tracing her jaw with his mouth. “Éowyn,” he murmured, stroking her hair. “Éowyn, my queen, my beauty… what could any man need or desire but you?”

She laughed, a small, breathless laugh against his neck. “Men want for many things, my lord,” she said. “I am sure I am the least of those.”

He leaned back, laying his head against the back of the throne. His gaze pierced through to the core of her as he spoke: “Not for me.”


End file.
